Maxwell | Downfall | 3
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Okay, we do have to warn you at the start of this episode that if you don't like strong language... Don't worry, there isn't any. No, there's tons of it. Oh. So actually, the positive, if you love strong language, this is the show for you. You're going to be drowning in it.

Alice, I've got you a treat. Oh, wow. Thanks. Very generous. Thank you. What is it? I know we don't usually do gifts, but I've got you a de-stressing weekend package at a luxury health spa. Oh, my God. Yeah. It includes any massages you want, steam room, flotation tanks, infinity pools. This sounds incredible. Thank you. Why? Well, on the one hand, I just think you deserve it. Thanks. On the other, I think you're going to find this episode so stressful that if you don't

Take this package. You will not be able to function as a human being. Wow, that's so generous. I didn't get you anything. October 1991. Claridge's, London. Laurie Guest tries to keep his cool as his lunch companion, Robert Maxwell, studies the menu. I recommend the lobster, Lawrence. It's very good. I think I'll just have the salad, Mr Maxwell. I'm not very hungry. Guest is MGN's finance director and food is the last thing on his mind.

Only weeks ago, Maxwell promised him that the £38 million he borrowed from the group's pension fund would be returned by now. But it's still missing, and Guest wants to know why. I'd love to say I'm shocked. To his surprise, Maxwell spares him the embarrassment of bringing it up by raising the issue himself. Before you ask, I decided to invest that money in gilts. It will be returned within the next two weeks, with interest.

I realise you've been concerned about a lack of transparency, but there's nothing sinister going on.

Whenever anybody says there's nothing sinister going on, it's almost a guarantee that something sinister is going on. Guest knows he should challenge him further. But as Maxwell's eyes burn into his, he's intimidated. Right. Good to know, Mr Maxwell. Smashed it. But his boss isn't done yet. This isn't your area of concern anymore, Laurie. It's the responsibility of our new commercial director. I suggest you leave it to him.

Maxwell's latest excuse for the money not being returned isn't the only thing bothering Guest. He never mentioned his fears over a lack of transparency to Maxwell or anyone else. But he used those exact words when he left himself a tape-recorded note of his worries the other day. No way. Now he's convinced that his office is being bugged. Guest forces down his salad as quickly as he can. The minute he steps outside, he lights a cigarette. It must be his 20th today.

He heads to the nearest phone box and calls the commercial director Maxwell referred to, Michael Stoney. He quickly fills him in on the situation. There's a pause. And then... Don't shake the tree, Laurie. You've got a mortgage to pay. The line goes dead. A shiver runs down Guest's spine. If Stoney is turning a blind eye, maybe he's not so paranoid after all. And Stoney's right. Guest does have a mortgage to pay, a family to feed. Every instinct is telling him to just let this go.

But he can't. Guest picks up the receiver again, sweating now. This time, he calls one of MGN's managing directors. It's Lawrence Guest. Nobody can know I'm making this phone call. He pauses, before delivering the line he knows could spell the end of his career. I think Robert Maxwell is stealing from the pension fund. You need to look into it ASAP.

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From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. MUSIC

So, Alice, what's your perception of Maxwell so far? Would you say that he was successful? Well, on the surface, he has friends in high places, a burgeoning empire, you know, publishing houses and newspapers, which they set the global agenda to a certain extent. I mean, he's got entrepreneurial drive for sure. Yes, but there are other facets of him that are problematic. The reality of some of those businesses is

isn't all it appears to be on the surface. He's obsessed with his rivalry with Rupert Murdoch.

And there is a suggestion that he might be corrupt. Yes. So this whole issue with the pension fund, which he's borrowing from, stealing from, to cover the debts that he's amassed, that doesn't sound or look good, whatever way you spin it. And also the way that he acts personally behind closed doors. Within his family, his behaviour towards his children, bar Ghislaine, is pretty nasty. Yes, his favouring of Ghislaine doesn't bode well for the future.

If you had to guess what happens next, what would you think? I know you, so I know that you are leading me down a path which says destruction, destitution, people's lives ruined. But I think this is one of those little switcheroos. So in fact, does he retire to the cottage that Kate Winslet stayed in in the Cotswolds in the film The Holiday? That would be one of the least ludicrous things that could possibly happen. This is episode three, Downfall.

A month earlier, the 13th of March 1991, Robert Maxwell doesn't often find himself awestruck, but as he walks into the Daily News building in New York for the very first time, he can't help but marvel at the magnificent Art Deco lobby. In its centre stands one of the world's largest indoor globes. Above it, a black glass domed ceiling represents the infinity of space.

The grey marble floor has brass lines showing the distance from New York to the world's most important capitals. Maxwell is overwhelmed with excitement. He's just bought this iconic newspaper, and he's being treated as nothing less than a hero by the people of New York as a result. Waiting to greet him is the Daily News' publisher, Jim Hogue. Shaking his hand enthusiastically, Maxwell only has one question. Did you call Rupert Murdoch and tell him the paper is mine? No.

Oh my God, get over it already. Sure I did. Tell me exactly what he said. Hogue seems reluctant. I can't think why Maxwell's such a mild-mannered and measured man. Maxwell presses with a glare. He left, Mr Maxwell, for quite a long time. Then he said it was very courteous of you to let him know. But...

Burn. Maxwell feels his good mood ebb away. What did he expect for him to sob down the phone? It's called bravado. He said he was so jealous. He said he was giving it all up, Mr Maxwell. He said you're the winner. You're the best guy that ever lived. He probably did want that. Maxwell's mood is replaced by the familiar sense of fury. He walks over to the security desk where a female guard beams at him.

It's such a happy day, sir. Noting that there are some photographers nearby, Maxwell picks up a copy of the paper, forces a smile and poses with the delighted guard. As soon as he steps into the elevator with Hoag and the doors close, he drops his grin and lets the paper fall to the ground. I want you to fire the entire security team, Jim. Hoag looks aghast, but Maxwell feels his anger dissipate.

And it's done him no harm to show Hoag his ruthless side. After some introductions with senior staff, Maxwell and the publisher head into a private room for lunch. Maxwell's personal butler enters with a silver cloche, which he lifts to reveal a perfectly butterflied roast chicken. Without a word, Maxwell picks up the tray and casually drops it to the floor. It's cold. Bring us something else.

So again, we presume a performative act to show us he's a monster? Yes, it's one of those bits of social interaction that people do when they're evil. OK, noted. Yes, sir. The butler kneels and picks up the food as if nothing unusual has occurred. Something you need to know about me, Jim. I don't take any crap. Hogue nods nervously. Maxwell smiles to himself.

So, uh, maybe now is a good time for you to run me through your initial plans for the paper. Promotions, editorial stands, that kind of thing. For once, Maxwell is lost for words. The truth is, this has happened so fast...

he doesn't have a clue what to do with the daily news. Cool. While he knows his UK papers inside out, New York is alien to him. It's almost like he just bought this on a whim to prove something to his rival. But he's not going to let Hoag know that. He figures he'll do what he's always done, fake it until he makes it.

All in good time, Gin. I have big plans for this paper. Big plans. And they just so happen to be exactly the same as what we're doing now, so just carry on as normal. I'm going to borrow a billion pounds, fritter it away and sell it. Maxwell quickly changes the subject. He leaves as soon as lunch is done. That night...

Any reservations Maxwell may have had quickly fade as he welcomes guests to a party on his yacht, the Lady Galane. We know it well. All of New York's most powerful figures are here, from Mayor David Dinkins to Donald Trump.

Introducing himself to the billionaire businessman, Maxwell hands him a copy of his official autobiography. All the guests have been gifted it on arrival. Oh my God. It's written by none other than Joe Haynes, Maxwell's one-time critic, who is now his number one cheerleader. It's a great read, Donald. You might learn a thing or two. This is a meeting of minds. Like his everyday life, the book is full of embellishments and exaggerations.

Maxwell can't wait to write this exciting new chapter. He's going to make back all the money the Daily News has lost. He's going to get all his companies back into profit. He's going to show Murdoch he's no joke. He's going to show them all. The 17th of April, 1991, 11.30am, Hoban Circus. At Mirror Group HQ, Robert Maxwell takes his place in the centre of a long table. Other members of the board sit either side of him, microphones lined up in front of them.

But Maxwell plans on doing most of the talking. After all, it was his idea to float MGM in the stock market. Maxwell knows the flotation is likely to invite some unwanted financial scrutiny from potential shareholders.

But he's confident he can manage that. And he needs capital urgently. I think the second point is the more pertinent one. Yes, of course, he's arrogant enough to think he can handle any kind of financial intrusion. But I think more importantly, he is in the red big time. I can blag and answer, mate, but I need cash now. Taking over the New York Daily News has been costly and it's hemorrhaging money.

Last month, Maxwell was even forced to sell his beloved Pergamon Press. But that wasn't enough to cover his losses. He hopes floating NGN will raise at least £500 million. His stockbroker has warned he'll be lucky to get half of that. But Maxwell, as always, is trusting his instincts. They serve him so well. If I was Maxwell, I would mistrust my instincts. In fact, his mood today is buoyant.

Over the last week alone, he's been in the company of some of the world's most powerful leaders. An invitation to 10 Downing Street was swiftly followed by visits to leaders in Israel, France and Germany. Maxwell truly is a global player these days. And that kind of means as much to him as the money, doesn't it? The prestige and the perception of power and influence. The standing. So when the press conference gets underway, he expects to be treated with a reverence befitting his stature. However...

The first question from a Financial Times journalist is far from friendly. Why would potential investors trust a man who was condemned by government inspectors more than 20 years earlier? Maxwell knows what he's referring to.

the Department of Trade and Industry report that was published in 1971, after the first time he lost Pergamon. Before Maxwell can retort, the journalist quotes from its conclusion. Notwithstanding Mr Maxwell's acknowledged abilities and energy, he is not a person who can be relied upon to exercise proper stewardship of a publicly quoted company. That is a very polite way of saying he's a crook. Maxwell's brow darkens as he glares at the reporter.

My record since then, as chairman of many public companies, I hope, will satisfy even you, sir. May I ask another question? Anger overtaking him, Maxwell strikes the table as if giving a karate chop. No, you cannot! This country hates success! Throwing down his mic, he storms out.

Back in his office, Maxwell studies MGN's accounts. The pension fund in particular worries him. It should. He's borrowing money from it regularly and some hasn't been repaid yet. But he knows the end-of-year accounts will be scrutinised in the run-up to the flotation.

He picks up the phone and leaves a message for the group's finance director. "I want to extend the pension fund's financial year to end in December rather than March. That will bring it into line with when MGN's financial year ends." Maxwell knows that will stop an audit taking place in the near future. He's covered his tracks for now. As long as his finances remain private, no one need know the truth.

that the foundations of his empire are so damaged the whole thing could come crashing down at any moment.

There's always a moment in these stories in British Scandal, particularly with financial volatility and people covering their tracks, that I wonder, at what point do you think, I'm the bad guy? I get a cold sweat if I've had my girlfriend's last chocolate bar and I've got to replace it from Tesco before she gets back from work. But she's petrifying. She's like, how are you? Everything's fine, everything's fine. I've just got to nip out, but don't you worry about anything. You take a long bath, okay? Don't leave the bathroom, yeah?

That's one word for it. Half a billion pounds. In 1991 as well.

I mean, it's a lot of money at any point in history. Half a billion these days, I'd back myself. But in the 90s, Kevin may now officially oversee company finances. That's it, good boy. But his dad is still leaving him out of the loop on several major decisions. Go to your room. Bad boy. He couldn't believe he sold off his beloved Pergamon Press. Now, as if reading his mind, his dad puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. You worry too much, son. Relax, enjoy the show.

That was easy. After all, his dad's been doing this stuff for 40 years. Gulp. You can cut that cake either way, can't you? Either, well, he's been getting away with it for this long, so it must be great, or he's really running out of time. Exactly. Maxwell's faith seems to have been rewarded as trading opens.

MGM's share price immediately begins to rise. OK. But soon it's falling sharply. Ah. The truth dawns on Kevin. This time, his dad hasn't managed to pull the wool over investors' eyes. More people want to sell Mirror shares than buy them. Before he knows what's happening, his dad is charging from the room. Trading isn't over yet, Dad. It might turn around. I've seen enough! Kevin's used to his father's black moods, but he is taken aback by his sudden departure.

I dread to think. What? That's not real. That's not real.

What the hell is going on? Maxwell turns and looks at him with an expression Kevin's never seen before. Fear. Suddenly, he's not the larger-than-life patriarch Kevin's been afraid of all his life. He's an exhausted old man.

The company is heavily in debt, Kevin. We needed today to go better. Much, much better. I can't shake that mental image, by the way. Towels covered in excrement. It will never leave me. I mean, we've all had weekends when we're in the flat on our own. Stop it. Move on. Move on. But we've never gone that far.

To Kevin's surprise, his dad finally spells it out. The daily news is a money pit. The companies and shares he sold haven't raised enough to pay the larger debts. He's overstretched himself and the vultures are starting to circle.

There's something so deluded about him to have got to this place and he's so broken that I'm almost sympathetic. I know he's not a naturally sympathetic character, but it is just so sad. If you're wiping your bum on towels and just leaving them around the place, I think it's fair to say you're not functioning properly.

Kevin is almost relieved. This is bad, but it's not fatal. Really? He thinks he can help, but when he starts to make suggestions, his dad looks outraged. No! You'll do nothing! Not even wash the towels. Kevin sits in silence as his dad outlines his strategy. They are going to cancel or push back all meetings with the board.

procrastinate on every major decision, buy themselves time until they can find a way out. With his dad glaring at him, he feels he has no choice but to agree. Those eyes, so much power. On the drive home, Kevin stares hypnotically at the road, still in shock. But like this morning, he tells himself it's all going to be OK. Robert Maxwell will find a solution. He always does.

Two weeks later, June 1991, Hoban Circus. In his office at Mirror Group Newspapers, Laurie Guest drags hard on a cigarette before stubbing it out and double-checking the documents in front of him. It'll be the death of him. Then he checks again. The Mirror's finance director has been over the figures several times, but he still can't find what he's looking for. Reluctantly, he picks up the phone. Mr Maxwell, it's Lawrence Guest. I need to speak with you urgently.

Oh no. Once again, good to catch up.

I was going through the pension fund accounts and there seems to be a large sum missing. £38 million to be exact. For the first time since he entered the room, Maxwell looks up. Guest feels his mouth go dry as a bone. But to his surprise, his boss breaks into a warm smile. Oh, don't worry about that. I deposited the money with the American banks. I need a few loans for my Macmillan interests. Placing the money there will make my US finances look very healthy. Guest could collapse with relief.

He was sure this couldn't be an error on his part, but was worried Maxwell would direct the blame at him regardless. If anything, though, his boss is apologetic. I mean, that should ring alarm bells. I should have told you. The money will be returned soon. Keep up the good work. Guest doesn't usually drink during the day, tobacco being his only vice. But that lunchtime, he treats himself to a cold beer to celebrate. When he returns to his office, he's greeted by a man he's never met before.

That's news to me.

There's a man in my office who says he's taking over the accounts side of... Calm down, Lawrence. You're still finance director. I'm just giving you some breathing space. I've worked with Stoney before. He's a good man. You'll receive a pay rise as a gesture of goodwill. This is all so sus. Guest is left with no choice but to suck it up. When his new colleague leaves, he sits down and lights another cigarette.

He supposes Maxwell is right. He should enjoy the breathing space. But something doesn't sit right. That's right, Laurie. Think it through. When Maxwell changed the end of the pension fund's financial year a couple of months ago, Guest didn't think much of it. But now, it seems too much of a coincidence. Guest isn't a naturally suspicious man, but he is diligent and by the book.

So while it may no longer be his job to directly oversee MGN's finances, he resolves to keep an eye on this and check the money is returned in due course, just in case.

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A week later, the 16th of June 1991, Yellowstone Park, Wyoming. Oh, lovely. Maxwell can't remember the last time he felt truly relaxed. Honestly, me and you both, right? Cortisol has been flooding the system once again, as it always does on this show. But today, watching all seven of his children gather together, as the geezer old faithful erupts in the distance, he could be an ordinary family man on a day out.

They're here for Ian's wedding to his long-time sweetheart, Laura, which took place yesterday. The picnic is the family's last chance to spend time together before Ian leaves for his honeymoon. Maxwell doesn't usually take time away from work for such frivolities, but he's enjoyed today. A family wedding is a frivolity. As he marvels at the beauty of Yellowstone Lake, Ian approaches him.

Thanks for everything, Dad. I wondered, would it be okay for me and Laura to take your private jet to Greece for the honeymoon? Ian looks nervous as he awaits Maxwell's response. Everyone knows how attached he is to his private jet. Sure, consider it a wedding gift. Maxwell holds out his arms and embraces Ian. For the first time ever. Over his shoulder, he notes Kevin looking on, his face full of concern.

Maxwell darkens, wishing he hadn't brought Kevin on the inside regarding his money woes. It was a moment of weakness, and Kevin's been visibly anxious ever since. Before he can approach him, Maxwell heads back to his hotel. Several messages await him, one of which is from Jim Hogue. Maxwell recently tasked him with checking on his newspapers in Britain, Germany, Hungary, Israel, Turkey and the US.

Now Hoag is ready to report back. They're all hemorrhaging money. I'll summarise it, Mr Maxwell. Britain is excellent. Everywhere else is a disaster. You'll never make profits in any of them. I mean, I wasn't far off. Not wanting to hear it, Maxwell slams the phone down. He looks at the rest of the messages. They're all from financiers, no doubt chasing payments.

Outside, the sun sets, and his good mood goes down with it. Maxwell calls Ian. I need the jet. My secretary will book you tickets to Greece on Olympic Airways. Economy class. The honeymoon's over. Before Ian can reply, Maxwell hangs up. Then he rings his PA. My diplomatic skills are acquired by several world leaders. Clear my diary and tell my pilots I'm going to Moscow. I'll start there with Gorbachev.

Maxwell has no intention of facing his business problems head on. Instead, he's going to pretend they don't exist for as long as he can. If he can fool himself, he's sure he can fool everyone else. No comment. A month later, July 1991, High Hoban. In his office, Kevin is fielding calls from several leading financial institutions. He's done little else lately. Since his father went AWOL, banks and employees have been queuing up with questions.

That is such a warped way of looking at it. Yeah.

His first face-to-face meeting of the morning is with Basil Brooks, the finance chief of Maxwell Communications. As I've said before, Basil, the vast share of the company's money is tied up in foreign exchange deals. You don't need to know the details. With respect, I'm the finance director. You'll have to trust me, and I don't want anything said in this meeting leaking. Understood? Kevin remains poker-faced as he waits for Brooks' response. He can see why he'd be reluctant to agree.

Kevin's giving him no information and demanding complete silence and loyalty in return. But he suspects Brooks is smart enough to know that doing anything else will endanger his job. Whatever you say, Mr Maxwell. It's a very Maxwellian move, and Kevin's proud of it. Do you await the day that we describe something as a Fordian move? No, because I think it'd be quite bland. I'd just be arriving early and getting a coffee.

Is that what defines me? A classic Fordian move there. To intimidate his opponents. What would a Levinian move be? That sounds good, doesn't it? Levinian. Sounds Latin. I suppose like a sarcastic wisecrack, veiling deep self-loathing. After turning up late. After turning up late with no coffee. Yeah, that rings true, yeah. Kevin is finally proving he's a chip off the old block. That's not a good thing. When the employee meetings are done, he spends the afternoon hitting the phones.

he has to convince their financiers to give Maxwell's various companies more time to repay their loans. By the end of the day, Kevin has spoken to at least half of the 33 banks and 29 private companies that have lent funds. He's masterfully hoodwinked them all with promises of pending deals and private shares that the Maxwell family can use as collateral. It's all smoke and mirrors, and Kevin knows his dad will have to pull off a masterstroke to get them out of this one.

But he has no doubt he can do it. Not even a little bit of doubt? Not even a little soupçon of doubt? Well, his father has been withdrawn these last few days.

He always has an ingenious plan up his sleeve. Er, run away on the private jet? So it's with optimism that Kevin sets off to Headington Hall House, where his dad has agreed to make a rare appearance for dinner with him, Ian and their mother. But when he enters, he's greeted by a panicked Ian. I'm really worried about Dad. He's not... right. Ian leads Kevin to the luxurious TV room.

Oh my God. He's been like that for ages. What are you doing, Dad? I'm trying to find my parents.

This is just too harrowing. Yes, it's easy to forget when we're discussing Maxwell and the things that he does, that that appalling tragedy is such a big part of who he is and that that would haunt him his whole life. Yeah, especially with all of those different personas that he created. He's sort of got this compartmentalised life, but as you say, that trauma doesn't go away. Maxwell turns back to the screen, mesmerised by the images, glancing over at Ian, whose face is filled with fear.

Kevin realises he's been wrong to put all his faith into mighty Robert Maxwell. The man in front of him is unrecognisable from the Titan he once was. Kevin's been put in charge of a ticking time bomb, and without his dad's help, there may be no way to stop it going off. October 1991, Hoban Circus.

In his office, Laurie Guest paces anxiously. The crowd goes wild, though. We love a bit of Laurie Guest. He holds a small tape recorder, dictates a protest to himself. Still no money returned to pension fund. There's a total lack of transparency. No response to messages left for Stoney or Maxwell. Guest has been doing this more and more lately, making a record of events, or rather, non-events.

He doesn't know what he hopes to achieve with these voice notes. Maybe a podcast series. But with both Maxwell and Michael Stoney ignoring his calls, he's desperate to log his concerns somehow. Switching off the tape and looking at the clock, he curses. Once again, he stayed in the office far too late. Guest arrives home just in time to find his wife Beverly scraping the remains of his cold supper into the bin. Universal sign for you're in trouble. Maxwell would probably eat them out of the bin.

I'm so sorry, Bev. Beverly doesn't answer him, but she throws the plate into the sink with such force that it breaks. He can see she's fighting back tears. Feeling terrible, Guest goes over and puts his arms around her. It's not that. I'm worried sick about you. You're smoking more, you're drinking, you're in the office all hours. All Guest can do is nod. Beverly's right to be worried. He's a complete mess. He barely eats, barely sleeps.

He knows he's been like a dog with a bone over this, but he doesn't know how to stop. Now his wife is suffering too. I wish I could just leave it alone. But if I'm right, and Maxwell isn't going to put the money back, thousands of innocent people could suffer. Can you imagine that weight of responsibility on you, especially if you felt like you were the only one keeping track of it? And you're an employee of the guy. Now Beverly nods. I know, Laurie, and the fact you care is why I love you. Beverly trails off.

Guest is terrified of what she's about to say. Has she finally had enough? Is she leaving him? You've tried talking to Mr Maxwell, but he hasn't listened. Maybe it's time to go over his head. Guest is shocked. He's mentioned Maxwell's temper to Beverly more than once. Surely she's aware of what could happen if he takes this further. If I do that, he'll more than likely wriggle out of it and then fire me on the spot. We could end up losing everything and living in a bedsit. Beverly takes his hand.

Let him do his worst. You have to be able to live with yourself, love. Guest hugs her again, tighter this time. Strengthened by his wife's words, he makes himself a promise. If the cash isn't returned by next Monday, he won't take any more excuses. It's time he made a stand. One way or another, he's going to make Mr Maxwell account for the missing money, even if it costs him his job. October 1991, Temple, London.

At the officers of New Court Chambers, Maxwell's face is puce with rage as he bangs his fist on the desk. I never imagined his face to be anything other than puce and I never imagined him to be anything other than rageful. No, no, no!

Sitting across from him is Maxwell's lawyer of many years, George Killer Carman. Sounds nice. I don't want to know how he got that nickname. He's one of the best QCs in the country, but even he can't tell Maxwell what he wants to hear. That the fraud squad can't be stopped from looking into his financial affairs. In fact, it's their very reason for being. They've been alerted to improprieties after Laurie Guest tipped off MGN's board about the missing money.

Now the company has launched an internal investigation and Maxwell could be facing criminal charges. I'm sorry, Bob, but now you're on the Fraud Squad's radar, there's nothing to be done. Maxwell slumps back in his chair, defeated. This isn't the only blow he's facing this week. A newly published book called The Samson Option claims Maxwell and the Daily Mirror's foreign editor were involved in arms dealing for Israel's Mossad. I'm sorry, what? OK.

Okay, so Maxwell reclaims his Judaism in the 1980s and becomes very close to the Israeli government, but nothing was ever proved. What about the book? It's reputational damage. I want to sue. You and me, George, we'll nail those fucking bastards. We can try, Bob, but it won't fix anything short-term. You know how long the libel process can take. Speeding off to his next appointment in New York...

Maxwell knows George is right. Not only that, any legal action is unlikely to stop the rumours hitting the company's share price. That evening, when he meets with Jim Hogue at the Daily News, the punches keep coming. We're losing a fortune, Mr Maxwell. The drop in circulation means our advertisers are demanding refunds as we're not hitting guaranteed targets. I don't see any way we can recover. Maxwell has no idea what to suggest.

He should have avoided this money pit from the get-go. Now it's too late. He stares out through the window at the city lights twinkling in the darkness. The view that once gave him such hope now makes him feel deflated. When hope goes to leave, Maxwell can't even manage a handshake. His voice barely rises above a whisper. Goodbye, Jim.

Oh, so ominous. This really reminds me of sort of a cycle of addiction, like drug addiction or something, where he has to keep going bigger and bigger and the highs are getting shorter and shorter. So his periods of being in a good mood or feeling celebratory or positive are just shrinking. I mean, we saw it when he first walked into the foyer of the Daily News. I mean, it was about 40 seconds of being joyous and then it was dashed by something. He's running out of options.

Arriving at his suite in the five-star Helmsley Hotel, Maxwell goes through his messages. One from Carmen simply reads, "Turn on CNN." Maxwell switches on the TV and soon finds out why.

The claims in the Sampson option have been repeated in the House of Commons. That means, protected by parliamentary privilege, every newspaper and TV station can report the allegations without fear of being sued. Once again, Maxwell feels betrayed by his former Westminster colleagues. And there's no let-up.

He picks up his ringing phone to be greeted by Kevin's anxious voice. Swiss Bank want their money by the 5th of November, otherwise they'll go public about the debt. That's the same day as our meeting with the audit committee. Maxwell can tell from Kevin's tone that he's scared and desperate for advice. But with nothing left to give, Maxwell hangs up the phone. Can you imagine in your moment of crisis? Beep, beep. Dad? Then, the anger that's been building all day finally explodes.

He throws every object he can find against the wall, rips the curtains from their poles, smashes every bottle from the minibar. By the time he's done, the entire room is trashed. Breathless and drained of all energy and hope, Maxwell falls to his knees. He lies on the floor, gasping like a wounded animal, exhausted and completely out of ideas. All he knows is the game's up.

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The 75-year-old has been Maxwell's barber since the 1960s, and one of the few people he's never had cause to shout at, being as nimble with his scissors now as he was 30 years ago. When George finishes, Maxwell shakes his hand warmly, suddenly overcome with emotion. George, I think you may be my oldest friend. Mr. Maxwell, I'm your only friend. Waving George goodbye, Maxwell has to concede that he's right.

Over the last few weeks, so many people he thought he could count on have deserted him, like rats leaving a sinking ship. Well, if you refer to them as rats, that's not exactly going to ingratiate you with them. Especially not if you're the captain of a sinking ship. Maxwell can barely afford this haircut. His health isn't getting any better and he has a terrible cold he can't shake. When his accountant calls, Maxwell can only hope it's not to deliver another blow.

Good news, Mr Maxwell. The loan on your London properties has been approved. I'll fax over the relevant papers for you to sign. Who would lend him money at this point? Maxwell should be pleased. This will give him £80 million. But it's simply too little, too late. The MGN share price is in freefall. Lehman Brothers, Goldman Sachs and Swiss Bank are all demanding immediate repayment. The fraud squad are lying in wait.

He has simply run out of Houdini-like manoeuvres to escape. Giving it that 90s feel with a Lehman Brothers shout-out. Very nice, Matt. Imagine if you could trace the global financial crash back to Robert Maxwell. I was just thinking that. We can't. Feeling exhausted, Maxwell decides to do what he always does. Go to work. He arrives in his office to find one of MGN's non-executive directors, Sir Robert Clarke, waiting.

Ah, Bob. Some of the board members have grave concerns about unauthorised investments. I suggest we call an urgent meeting.

Maxwell wonders if this is the moment to hold his hands up, tell the truth and face the consequences. Yeah, yeah, let's do that. That sounds good. It would be so easy. Then this problem wouldn't just be his to carry anymore. That's such a good point. A weight off, just lay it all on the table. In a way, he would finally be free. Exactly. But the words won't fall from his lips. Maxwell can't admit defeat.

He can't let the likes of Clark, the establishment, win. It's all a mistake, Robert. I'm going to get rid of this cold. I'll explain everything when I return. Before Clark can argue, Maxwell turns on his heels and walks out. He's decided on a new strategy. He's tried to fight. Now it's time for flight.

Well, it rhymes. It's catchy. I just don't know if it's going to work. He does have a private jet. He's got a private jet. Can fly for a bit. For as long as the fuel lasts. The 30th of October, 1991, 5.30pm, Gibraltar. Gus Rankin loves being captain of the Lady Galane. Sure, he has a demanding boss. But since he started this job in May, Robert Maxwell has rarely used this yacht.

That means, on days like today, he can watch the sunset over the Atlantic and enjoy the kind of calm that only comes from being virtually alone at sea. His zen-like state is shattered by a ringing phone. Maxwell's PA. Mr Maxwell would like you to know he's arriving in the morning for a few days rest and recreation.

Rankin immediately feels a tightness in his chest. Um, are you sure? We only have a skeleton crew and there's hardly any food on board. There won't be time to get anything ready. Come on, Gus, you know the boss. Once his mind is made up... Yep, I know. Pray for me. Rankin's witnessed Maxwell's legendary temper before. He's certain he's about to experience it again.

All he can do is try to get the Lady Ghislaine as shipshape as possible and hope for the best. As we know, Maxwell's standards are pretty low in terms of cleanliness and hygiene, so don't tidy up too much. Let's get it ready. Trash the place. When Maxwell arrives the next morning, Rankin is surprised to find him in good spirits. He can't help wondering why he's travelling so light. He's on the run. Maxwell usually has at least three or four members of staff and several suitcases.

This time, it's just him and five boxes of files. Despite his insatiable appetite, Maxwell doesn't even seem to care about the near-empty pantry. That's fine. I'm only here to recuperate. I don't want any bother. This would be so suspicious. To Rankin's joy, Maxwell sticks to his word. He's a dream guest, polite and easygoing.

After instructing the chef to knock him up an omelette, Rankin delivers it to the stateroom, Maxwell's private quarters. He finds Maxwell laid in front of a large TV like a beached whale, watching a Bond movie. What an image. Thank you, Gus. I'm very grateful. Leaving the room, Rankin sneaks a look back at the billionaire. Maxwell's eyes seem almost glazed over, mesmerised by the action on screen. He stuffs the omelette into his mouth like it's a slice of pizza, almost childlike.

as if he doesn't have a care in the world. Rankin allows himself to relax once again. This should be an easy trip. The 4th of November, 1991, northern Tenerife. Looking over the side of the Lady Ghislaine, Maxwell stares into the waves and breathes in the salty air. Checking his watch, he realises the yacht will soon dock in Santa Cruz. Putting on a suit, he ponders the past few days.

While the untrue stories about arms dealing have rumbled on, and Kevin continues to field calls from banks clamouring for their money, Maxwell has been enjoying himself. He's paddled in the Med.

He's visited a casino in Madeira. And tonight, he's dining at the luxurious Hotel Menci. That does sound rather nice. Maxwell enjoys the looks of recognition as he walks through the building's grand restaurant. Whatever his current circumstances, he'll live like a king tonight. Hasn't he earned that right after all his years of hard work? He eyes up the Kobe steak on the menu, but orders a light salad. He's not in the mood for a blowout tonight.

For once, he's putting his health first. OK. And I'll have chips with it, please. It's 10pm by the time Maxwell re-boards the Lady Galane. He issues Gus Rankin with a clear instruction. Set sail immediately. I want to cruise all night at sea.

Maxwell goes to the state room, where he makes several calls. Kevin informs him that once again, the Financial Times is looking into his business affairs. I've had a tip-off that they've been methodically assembling a dossier for weeks, and they're almost ready to publish. Maxwell takes in the information calmly, betraying no emotion. Don't worry about it.

Then, Maxwell talks to Ian, who wants to discuss the Jewish fundraiser they're appearing at in London the following evening. After a short conversation, Ian signs off. Big day tomorrow, Dad. See you then. You bet. Maxwell isn't thinking about the fundraiser, though. He's thinking about the walls closing in, the deadline from Swiss Bank and the looming audit committee.

There's no telling what the FT has discovered. Well, there is. At 10.30pm, desperate to cast it all from his mind, he tells the crew not to put through any more calls. I'm going to bed. But after half an hour of trying to sleep, he's still tossing and turning. He's not sure what time it is when he gives up and goes back onto the deck. Once there, he finds a crew member. My room is too hot. Turn on the air conditioning immediately. Maxwell waits a while before going back to his room.

Now, with the air conditioning blasting, he feels too cold. He picks up the phone by his bed and lets the crew know. Then he goes out onto the deck once again. He knows by now it must be the middle of the night, but sleep seems impossible. He walks over to the boat's stern rail and looks out at the horizon. The shoreline is no longer in view. They're in the middle of the ocean. He knows why he can't sleep, and it has nothing to do with the temperature of his room.

When he closes his eyes, all he can see are the problems he's about to return to. The banks, the journalists, the politicians, the authorities, all closing in for their pound of flesh. He feels dizzy just thinking about it. Maxwell looks down at the dark waves below, crashing against the side of the boat. On the one hand, so forbidding. On the other...

This is the third episode in our series Maxwell. If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review.

A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, books include Fall by John Preston, Maxwell by Roy Greenslade and The Verdict by Tom Bower. I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. Wendy Grandeter wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford.

Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Yeager.

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